The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

Finally, the reply came: “The postman—We forced the postman to deliver them to us—Now let me down!”

  “One more question. The daughter of La Tonnara’s owners: Did you lay a hand on her?”

  “No! No! We didn’t touch her, I swear!”

  He was too quick to respond, and Licata didn’t believe him. “Tomorrow is Sunday. You wouldn’t want to be left hanging like that for a whole day. You know no one will come before Monday.”

  “What do you want to know?” He began sniveling.

  “Which one of you touched her?”

  “It was Hugh. And Damien too—a little. But they didn’t rape her. I swear.”

  “That much I knew.” Licata rose. His face had turned to stone.

  He gestured to Mastrangelo: it was time to leave. But before they left, they locked the windows and doors. They gagged the man, so he couldn’t be heard outside. Finally, they lowered him until his mouth was submerged in the water. If he didn’t want to die drowning, he was forced to hold his head up. But for how long would he be able to? He would count the time until he met his death, second by second.

  With no remorse whatsoever, they left the apartment and locked the door behind them.

  * * *

  The Roxy Club on West Fifty-Second Street, in the heart of the jazz district, was one of the most popular places in the city, and you could get in only if you were a regular customer’s friend. The club was a restaurant, gambling parlor, illegal opium den, and brothel all rolled into one. It offered something for everybody, but its specialty was “Cloud Nine Pizza.” Needless to say, its main ingredient was a generous sprinkling of cocaine on tomatoes and Italian mozzarella.

  You were admitted by showing a ticket that was split in half. The half with the name of the invited guest clearly visible on one side was retained by a doorman in braided livery who determined who could enter. Once you were in the door, you could choose between the gaming parlors or the dance halls. But the restaurant was the favorite destination of all the guests. It was a large room with soundproof walls. From outside you couldn’t hear any noise, but as soon as the door was opened, a great racket exploded from the room. There were numerous tables, and waiters and waitresses moved among the guests serving the Cloud Nine Pizza. The menu featured a few opium cigarettes as a starter. The drug provided a sense of euphoria, but those who were used to the cigarettes required something stronger, so they resorted to morphine injections. The din grew louder; inhibitory restraints were completely relaxed. Amid the uproar, a jazz band, crammed onto an elevated platform so it wouldn’t take up table space, played swing at a dizzying tempo.

  On the lead trumpet was Dixie, in his first engagement. A friend who’d heard him play during one of his excursions with the Army had asked him if he wanted to supplement his pay at a rather unusual club. Naturally, Dixie didn’t wait to be asked twice. He quit the Salvation Army on the spot and joined the Roxy’s orchestra, never dreaming that he was getting into a shady scene.

  Thanks to him, Saro and Isabel were able to get into the club. They handed the half dollar to the solemn doorman and were led directly into the restaurant, as indicated on the half of the ticket retained by the bouncer.

  When they entered the dining room, they were struck by a deafening roar. At that moment, a woman in the throes of a drug-induced fit writhed convulsively on the floor. Some friends tried to calm her, but to no avail. Two of the club’s bruisers then stepped in, one grabbing her unceremoniously by the legs and the other by her arms. They carried her out amid the general indifference of those around them.

  The area downstairs, near the garage, was equipped with a first-aid station with nurses and a doctor. If their intervention failed, then the patient was put into a car and driven home or unloaded in some alley in the Bronx.

  Isabel waved to Dixie, throwing him a kiss, as she and Saro found a seat in a corner of the room. It was their debut in the fashionable world of high society. Around them, young starlets fawned over well-to-do producers; alluring young men busied themselves catering to wealthy homosexuals. Big shots from Mafia families represented another type of customer, recognizable by the fact that they shamelessly flaunted scads of dollars and were surrounded by gorgeous, flashy young women.

  The band started playing “One O’Clock Jump” by Count Basie, and most of the clientele leaped up and began dancing. Everyone seemed to be having a wild time, as if it were the end of the world. Whenever a section launched a solo—first the saxophones, then the trumpets, and finally the clarinets—the musicians stood up from their chairs and blared out the notes with every ounce of breath in their bodies.

  When it was Dixie’s turn, the simpatico Neapolitan ran through all the tricks of the trade, performing a brilliant solo, and he was rewarded with a standing ovation at the end. Isabel was as happy as she’d ever been in her life. She clapped her hands loudly, hopping up and down like a little girl, enthralled by Dixie’s ability and the applause he received.

  Dixie, too wrapped up in the acclaim of the crowd jammed into the room, didn’t notice Isabel’s enthusiasm. He showed his thanks by holding up the trumpet, the undisputed queen of his life. Saro looked at Dixie and then at Isabel, and realized that the Irish redhead was head over heels in love with their friend.

  When the piece ended and the orchestra took a break, Dixie joined his buddies at the table. He was beaming. His life had suddenly taken a turn that he hoped would lead him to fame.

  He kissed Isabel on the forehead and hugged Saro. “A crowning success! Teddy confirmed my gig for the entire season,” he announced to his friends.

  There was no way the trio would go unnoticed, especially given Isabel’s presence: the long red hair loose about her shoulders, the sheer chiffon dress that barely concealed her breasts, the patrician facial features and pale blue eyes. She looked like a diva.

  She didn’t fail to attract the attention of certain individuals sitting at a table not far away. Among them was Johnny Scalia, the lemon merchant who still hadn’t digested the trick they’d played on him a few weeks earlier. As soon as he spotted Isabel and recognized the other two as well, Scalia nudged the man sitting beside him. He pointed to the trio, and then leaned over and whispered in his ear, “It’s them.”

  The man rose from his chair, and another individual sitting next to him stood up at the same time. They were clearly mafiosi, with their leather shoulder straps with guns under their jackets. The two gorillas began heading toward the trio’s table when suddenly the shriek of a whistle sounded in the hall; everyone got up at once and began fleeing, running from side to side in the room like crazed rats, frantic for a way out.

  Police in uniform along with plainclothes officers strode through the main door, shouting at everyone to calm down and take their seats again. But nobody listened to them, and everyone continued screaming, pushing, and shoving to get out.

  At the sound of the whistle, Dixie just had time to tell his two friends not to panic. The first thing the manager had shown him, even before hiring him to play, was the escape route to use in case of raids of any kind, police or Mafia. Along with the band members, they disappeared under the platform that concealed a trap door leading to a long tunnel that brought them to a laundry room in a nearby skyscraper.

  The following morning, Dixie got up early to buy the first edition of the New York Herald. A certain Tom Rice, the newspaper’s music critic, had promised him a review the night before. An excited Dixie met Saro and Isabel for breakfast at a nearby coffeeshop and searched for the piece in the entertainment section as the other two looked on.

  “Here it is.” He folded his newspaper and began reading. “It’s Tom’s byline. ‘Hundreds of people are on the dance floor or sitting at the tables or at the bar. Off in a corner there’s a line of taxi girls: two coins for three dances. Rosy light spills down from the ceiling and there’s pandemonium everywhere. But the vital heart of the room is up there, on the platform where the band members are lined up in two rows, stamping their feet rhythmically a
nd sweating over their instruments. And when Teddy Hill’s musicians start playing the final refrain of one of their warhorses, the dancers forget to dance and crowd around the podium. The first trumpet rises from his chair. It’s Dixie, a fantastic young man from southern Italy, with a movie star’s mustache, who blares out a long, long note managing to “split” it until the finale. Then he performs a series of dizzying scales, in the best Harlem tradition. The floor shakes and the room feels like a dynamo, the smoke-filled air rising in waves. It’s music that even the deaf would be able to hear.’ ”

  Dixie was thrilled by the article. Saro too was happy for his friend. The most tepid was Isabel, who felt she was losing him. They were toasting with cups of coffee, when three imposing figures surrounded their table.

  The first of the three snarled, “Come with us.”

  “Is that an order?” Dixie asked.

  “No, a recommendation,” the man replied.

  “We accept your invitation,” Dixie replied amiably, rising. “Is it about a new gig?”

  “Your next gig will be in a cemetery plot,” the man said shortly.

  * * *

  Brian Stoker wasn’t a fan of the telephone. He said it was a diabolic device invented to harass people, and he wouldn’t have one in his home. If someone wanted him, they had to phone Damien first. Then Hugh, one of his son’s two bodyguards, would rush to his home to give him the message.

  That Monday morning, the phone rang at Damien’s place. An anonymous voice said to inform Brian that he should go to Kevin’s apartment because the man needed help, given that the blood was going to his brain. Damien immediately phoned Kevin, but the phone just rang. He began to worry. Together with Hugh, he raced to his father’s house and persuaded him to accompany them.

  They were forced to break down the door. The three men called out loudly, but no one answered. They searched the closets and looked under the bed, then Hugh went into the bathroom and saw his friend hanging by his feet from the ceiling fixture. Kevin still showed signs of life. Hugh called Damien, and together they got him down. He was in a state of mental confusion and in very bad shape. They had to get him to the hospital quickly if they wanted to save his life. Just then the phone rang. Damien went over and picked up the receiver, afraid of more bad news.

  The same voice as before whispered, “This time I took pity. But forget about the territory between Fourth and Seventh streets, and First Avenue and Avenue A. If you respect this agreement, there will be no other accidents, like the one that unfortunately happened to Freckles. Let him tell you the details, if he still has any breath left.”

  Ferdinando Licata hung up the phone without waiting for Damien to respond.

  Chapter 33

  That same year, 1939, the family of Vito Genovese found itself without a boss. Don Vitone had been forced to embark hastily for Italy because of a scrape he’d gotten into a few years earlier, which the district attorney of New York, Thomas Dewey, had exhumed from the archives, determined to finally detain him.

  Vito Genovese, Peter DeFeo, Gus Frasca, and Mike Mirandi had decided to fleece a naive building contractor in a poker game when the man was imprudent enough to reveal that his pockets were bulging with money. They swindled him out of $116,000 in Willie Gallo’s gambling parlor in Brooklyn, in a fixed card game. But Gallo decided that, as owner of the place, he was entitled to a larger share. Of course, the other four wouldn’t stand for it and chose to eliminate their overly demanding partner.

  Two years later, the DA’s office in New York reopened the investigation when Mike Mirandi, arrested for drug trafficking, was given house arrest in exchange for a confession about the murder of Willie Gallo.

  When they learned that the DA’s office was about to charge them because Mike “the informer”—as he was called from then on—had squealed, Genovese, DeFeo, and Frasca skipped town. Genovese left for Italy, and the other two disappeared somewhere in the United States.

  So overnight the Genovese family found itself decapitated. A nephew of Don Vitone, Sante Genovese, took command.

  And so it was to Sante Genovese that Saro, Isabel, and Dixie were brought following their discovery by the lemon merchant. Like most novices, Sante was considered a lunatic. An impulsive person with no moral standards, he didn’t know how to find the middle ground and lacked the fine art of diplomacy. Coming before Sante for a judgment was truly risky. But our three friends didn’t know that. At the moment all they knew for certain was that they were in the presence of the number two man in the Genovese family, the most important Mafia family in New York at the time, and this fact alone was cause for concern.

  Next to Sante in the formal parlor of the Genovese home sat Johnny Scalia, along with other members of the family and a few bodyguards. Mike Genna, the consigliori, as he was referred to in Sicilian, sat nearby in a corner.

  As soon as Saro and his friends entered the room and saw the lemon merchant, their stomachs dropped.

  “So then, do you know this gentleman?” Sante abruptly asked the new arrivals.

  The three young people’s eyes flew to Johnny Scalia. Dixie even went so far as to attempt a half smile by way of greeting.

  Saro spoke first: “Mr. Genovese—or rather, Don Sante—we do know this man. He let the three of us cheat him out of twenty-five thousand dollars, fooled by the office we rented.”

  Sante smiled. “And what did you sell him?”

  “A batch of slot machines, complete with license.”

  The boss shook his head. “Mr. Johnny Scalia is one of the family. He shouldn’t have been disrespected like that.”

  “Don Sante, if we had known that, we never would have gone near him,” Saro apologized. “But he kept flashing that big wad of bucks under our noses! In any case, we’ll return every penny of it,” Saro concluded. “Can my friend go get the money?”

  Sante Genovese nodded and ordered one of his men to go with him. Dixie reluctantly left the room escorted by Genovese’s goon.

  “Don Sante, in our defense,” Saro continued, “I must say that we would never have imagined that the great Genovese could be the padrino—godfather—to such a sucker.”

  For a moment, the boss was dumbfounded, unable to decide whether or not to take offense.

  “You think you can be a smart aleck just because you’re young?” he said, getting up from his chair and going over to Saro. “I never liked stray dogs—sooner or later they form packs and become dangerous.”

  “But dogs can also become attached to a master. Just throw them a bone every now and then,” Saro suggested.

  Sante ignored those words and walked over to Isabel. “I’m not sure what to do with you—though it’s a real shame to waste such a tasty treat.” He circled around the girl, and when he was behind her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her cute little ass.

  But at that point, he was interrupted by one of his men telling him, “Vanni is here.”

  “Who?” Sante had taken his uncle’s place only a few weeks earlier and still hadn’t learned the names of all the bagmen.

  “Carmelo Vanni, the Bontade family’s bagman.”

  Those words were music to Sante’s ears.

  Sante went to the door and opened it, and Carmelo Vanni spotted a young man in the room whom he immediately recognized. He could never forget him.

  “Excuse me for butting into your business, Sante,” he said. “But I happen to recognize that fellow over there. He saved my life, and I never had the chance to thank him. If it hadn’t been for him, Stoker would have sent me to meet my Maker. Those bastards wanted to make off with our pizzo: the protection money for Enzo Carruba’s funeral parlor. But that’s Bontade’s territory. Can I go in and say hello to him?”

  “Business before pleasure, Vanni.”

  Vanni handed him an envelope containing the sum brought in by several rackets in Bontade’s jurisdiction. Then he was given the go-ahead to talk to Saro.

  Carmelo Vanni clinched Saro warmly, clapping him heartily on the back. “I
f you knew how hard I tried to find you! We can use sharp people like you.” He glanced at Sante and quickly added, “With all due respect, Don—unless he’s one of yours.”

  Sante was caught off guard and didn’t want to let on that Saro was about to undergo endless retribution for having swindled one of his protégés. He therefore chose to simply nod yes.

  “Good, good. You couldn’t have fallen into better hands, my friend,” Vanni said to Saro. “You know where to turn, though, should you ever have a problem. I owe you a favor.”

  He shook hands with Saro and then said good-bye to Sante Genovese. “See you next month, boss.”

  A few minutes later, Dixie returned with a bag crammed with the lemon merchant’s money. He set it on the table and, with the gall that only he was capable of, turned to Sante with his usual half smile. It was never clear if it was meant as ridicule or whether it was simply his way of trying to win someone’s favor.

  “I have a personal favor to ask you, boss.”

  Sante Genovese looked at him suspiciously. Even he couldn’t decipher that wry little smile. “Go on, out with it. What is it?” Meanwhile, he went over to the bag, picked it up and stashed it away in his safe: he had it coming to him to make up for the disturbance.

  * * *

  After the phone call from the mysterious individual who had tortured Kevin, the Stokers tallied up the businesses in the area the caller had indicated, from which they extracted revenue. There were a couple of restaurants, three bars, some secondhand clothing shops, a laundry, a brothel: in short, a good portion of their income was cut off. Kevin was still in shock and said he didn’t remember a thing, since he’d been drunk when he was assaulted and the apartment was completely dark. He had no idea who had roughed him up and how many they were.

  Brian Stoker wasn’t intimidated by a phone call. But he had to find out if it was a move by the Bontade family in response to their attempt to take over the funeral business in the Baxter Street area.